wonderful life
by Denwa
Summary: sasuke, sakura friendship. it's because you found yourself, right?


**a/n:** ... hi, guys. i am going to ignore the fact that a) d.gray-man is my new obsession after a, um, nine-month hiatus from reading it, b) i don't post here anymore—i post at _unmyeong_ at _livejournal_, c) i haven't updated/read naruto in a long time, and d) most of you might not even remember me. :')

—

after two months of running in the opposite direction when you are in a room with her, she says to you, being as nonchalant as she can, "you know, it probably doesn't matter to you but i like your hair when your bangs are so long that half of them cover your face and the other is swept to the side." she then offers a tiny smile and walks away.

sakura is no ino but she sets her facts straight—"they read _minds_," the inner child inside your head says brightly; he is exhilarated. right now you sort of want to curl up into a ball and _die_ at the embarrassment that only you can understand (that only you can hear and feel and witness) but that's a stupid thing, it's a stupid thing to die of something so trivial.

"i hope you understand," you say, softly, to yourself as you walk down the early morning markets, trying to make yourself sound as childish as possible while looking for fresh cabbage and carrots and thick noodles (not because they're healthy, because you just crave it today), "that people don't read minds." cabbages appear in your basket. "i hope you understand—" this time it's a low, low murmur "—that life's not magic." carrots. "'cuz—" noodles "—nothing's magic." pay up.

you unconsciously run your hands through your hair, patting some here and some there and laugh at yourself in your head. sometimes you can be so ridiculous. (to the cashier, though, you nod, and is that a tug at your lips?)

—

the second time she speaks to you, it's in the library—cool and brightly lit. she is scolding you for not wearing a jacket but you're not listening. you marvel at the sheer amount of scrolls and books and paintings, and the smell of old dusty paper is comforting in a way you can't begin to explain.

she knows you're lost in both ways: in a book, in this room. you like her for her understanding nature, but it's a little embarrassing: it must be very obvious because she pulls up a chair like it's her business that you are what you are—who are you? you are a boy rereading the works of matsuo basho in a library that's threatening you to sneeze any moment now who has a sack filled with regret that no one can take away from you. but she smiles quirkily because she's turned into naruto.

"from here it's so obvious."

you look up, almost startled at her sudden sentence. she laughs—maybe you look silly, but she laughs at that kind of thing. like kittens playing and tangled in yarn, friends choking on ramen on purpose, campfire stories that never made a bit of sense.

"what?"

she shakes her head. "no, nothing. you're reading _poetry_." she peers over the rim of the book. "which one?" it's a joke, of course, but you play along. you tilt the book higher and higher until she has to stand up. "oh, i may have to threaten to punch you three ways from sunday!" she says. "you're—oh, the slipping-and-falling one. you have a dry sense of humor, did you know that?"

the smile on your face gets drier, if possible.

"basho was powerful," you say softly, just above a murmur.

"a book is only powerful if you will it to be," she says, sounding like an older sister. there's a distant look in her eye, and you know it's best not to disturb her when she gets like that: she's replaying a dream, and she's living it in real life, and then she snaps out of it. "somebody is only powerful if you will them to be." the book is put down, and she drums her fingers in a peculiar rhythm, her fingertips hard and calloused. "life's not easy, right? no one can keep a façade for long." she points to your book. "you see? you're always going to be a nobleman whether you want to be or not. i'm always going to be plain old sakura whether i want to be or not. life's just like that."

the whispers in the library still go on.

"why not?" you mumble, bothered by the silence.

"because i'm older than you," she says cheekily, leaning back, and she's back to herself again. "because men can't fake body language. because transitions are hard. because we're always going to be ourselves. who knows?" you don't tell her that she's obvious, too.

—

she's grown up so fast and so much but you could never love her. sakura is ino in a way; she has her facts wrong. you overdosed on something—reality, maybe—and now you've been humbled. in reality, no one wants to crash and burn; everyone wants to look at themselves and go, "i'm right, this is right, i could never move on," but you did.

it's a very naruto-esque thing for her to do and say, but she puts her hand over her heart and says earnestly to you, "it won't be very important to you—because it may or may not be only important to _me_—but, very truthfully, sasuke-kun, i can't stand to see you get hurt. i can't stand to watch you fall apart."

for a moment, you don't speak, like a hitch in your breath. because, how could you tell her that she can't help you with this? it's the repercussion of you and your brother; it's personal. it would hurt her to say that she is an outsider, that she could not possibly understand. but you know what'd she say after; she'd laugh and say, "we're all outsiders, sasuke-kun. how could we—the rest of us; all of us—_not_ understand?" and you'd say this: "sakura, you can't, you couldn't," and you'd leave it like that.

she leans in and stares at you, making sure that even after all these years, she won't forget your face; never ever. that's the way she is, a curious, book-loving girl. so average, you think; why couldn't i be like that? truth is, you could.

but everyone knows that you won't.

"you," she declares after the most awkward silence you've had in a long, long time, "are a foil." there's a frown that had a double meaning to it, but you don't dote on it too much; there's always a chance that she'll stop whatever speech she's preparing in her head to explain to you in regular civilian vocabulary.

there's the sort of neji-type smile on her face (you leave her and she turns into everybody) when she says, "you _do_ know what a foil is, right? because i'd be awfully disappointed in you if you didn't."

you don't reply, but it's out of spite, not naivety.

"… you _do_ want to be better than naruto at vocabulary, don't you?" but she gives up on you, so she says, "you two are really so different. don't you know that? naruto's so—i don't know, _positive_ about things, and that's amazing, don't you think so? you just refuse to believe that you can trust me, but naruto can trust everybody. isn't that a funny thing?"

she's the awful sort of fifteen-year-old girl, with all the wrong sass.

"… i don't know what to think," you admit, and it's painful to hear yourself. her eyes are on you, and she's so sincere that it hurts a little bit. "because… i left, so i could find somebody." (his name is not spoken anymore, and she knows that.) you shake your head. you shake yourself. "it's hard to explain."

sakura has that poker face on, the one that says everything and nothing about her. if you looked at her right now, you would've understood everything. she could cure everything but a broken heart, but she's working on that, isn't she? in the shadows that fell into your apartment (that naruto decided to paint green), she sits on the beige couch, staring off into space, deep in thought.

"it's because you found yourself instead. isn't it?"

and there's your conclusion.

—

the last time you see her in a while is in a confectionary. _how odd_, you think when you stepped into this quiet part of town, _i don't remember this_. observing the type of wood and architecture, it was probably built during the period when you were gone.

the sliding door is strangely loud and the _ding! ding!_ of the bell with the red tassel inside is the exact opposite; soothing, in a way, coaxing your head to think that you were in a safe place. kabuto has once said, "no place is a safe place," and he's right, in his strange logic of his.

"oh, what a surprise!" she says, when she sees you. "i didn't know you that liked sweet things, sasuke-kun."

"i don't," you say quietly, because you know that, with being alone, she can't understand. it's a personal thing, you want to say, but the isolation hurts. "i was window shopping."

she smiles anyways (it's like she's trying to build a bridge across the gorge you've made between yourselves) and says, rather jokingly, "the tomato stand is in the opposite direction." you can't stop yourself from having a quirky smile on your face, because sakura is sakura and you can't do anything about that, she's like that. and then she says, "the shopkeeper is in the back; she's getting dango for me." she raises a finger, remembering something. "oh, and let's go out for tea sometime. if it's fine with you, i mean."

"it's fine."

"ah, that's the correct answer! because if you didn't, i would have to channel that one pig—don't give me that look, you know that it's a joke between me and ino—and drag you to there anyways." she laughs. "did you know that she forced sai on a date recently? he went kicking and screaming, he told me."

it gets terribly quiet when she runs out of things to say and you keep on praying that the dango lady hurries up with the dango-making. and, truthfully, you don't even like tea anymore—it's too bitter, anyways; you don't really like bitter things. but the worst is that it keeps you up at night; you toss and turn and scowl and there's nothing to do except think—you hate that a lot.

there's a thinking game your brother taught you for sleepless nights. "sasuke," he said, sleepy himself, "think of a word; any word, it doesn't matter which. are you thinking? good. then what does that word remind you of? and what does the word that reminds you of the word remind you of?" he smiled for you, your beautiful brother smiling for you, and said, "it sounds difficult, doesn't it? it's very easy."

"… sakura," you say, startling her, and that's the first time in a long time you've said your name. she looks up warmly, the same warm face you could count on. (naruto's out of the question—he has the most ridiculous expressions ever.) "it's awful, isn't it?"

"what's awful?" there's a hint of puzzlement in her voice, her eyebrows scrunching together slightly. she's trying to read you like a book, except she can't. so she moves on.

"class," you say, a little confused yourself. "and education. and all these stupid things." (her eyebrows raise at "stupid" and she looks more amused than ever.) "people depend on you when you're… high-born. and such. and." you take a quick glance at her. "and it's difficult to deal with all that."

"well—"

"and i've been thinking," you cut in quickly, "about what you said. because i did find myself. about basho and façades and obviousness and whatever. right? isn't that what you said? well, not exactly basho; basho aside, i've been thinking about it. isn't it time to change already? obviously, i'm never going to forget naruto—any of you, and obviously—it's already been said—that maybe it sounds like i don't exactly care about you as much as you care about me or that idiot, but i'm trying hard, aren't i? it was a little difficult to tell at first, but i think this is where i want to be. i don't care, i really don't care about the past anymore. because i'll try my best to not be a foil, and maybe that id—naruto's stronger than me by now but i'll try my best to catch up. i… don't exactly have a poker face like yours, so this is hard for me. and i'm not good at words like naruto is, and i'm not good at ad libbing like kakashi is, and that's what i've been thinking about. what good is trying your hardest to be just like someone else when you could be yourself? i don't remember myself anymore, so i guess i'll just have to start over again. i'll be a little bit like everyone. but i'm not a copycat, so nobody'll tell on me. isn't that a good plan?"

you stop talking like your mouth has been burned; you've talked and talked until your throat is dry and scratchy and aches for water—suddenly, buying pastries wasn't such a good idea after all.

deep down—deep, deep down, you know that you're still a child. a memory is playing in your head on repeat: you had clutched itachi's jacket and cried until you fell asleep from overexertion. "don't go," you had said—or maybe it was something else? "don't go, or i'll die. why are they making you do this?" you asked, angry at the world. "why are they making us do this? we're just kids, right? just kids."

sakura, on the other hand; she's grown up without you, whether you like it or not. she is still and listens to you speak in her mind. if you told her, she'd tell you this: "but you've grown up so much, sasuke-kun; you understand more things now." instead, she says in that motherly tone you love and abhor, "didn't i tell you all this? about body language and books and—and punching you—which i didn't mean, honest—and… i told you all these things, didn't i? isn't hard to understand, isn't it? the truth is that you just have to try. and that's not hard to do, right?"

she turns around, facing you, and that's her smile.

"life's really terrible!" she says, "but from here you're so obvious."

this time you understand.


End file.
